Cats and Dogs
by Vatrixsta Cruden
Summary: Drunk Angel and his six hour adventure down memory lane.


Title: Cats and Dogs  
  
Author: Vatrixsta Cruden  
  
Email: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com  
  
Classification: Angst, Fluff, B/A Mush (All the good things  
in life.)  
  
Rating: Oh, it straddles that VERY fine line between R and  
NC-17  
  
Archive: Kindly tell me where it's going. Unless you already  
have something of mine, in which case this is written &  
binding blanket permission.  
  
Disclaimer: "Golly gee, Mr. Whedon, can't I just have 'em to  
play with for a minute?" "Well of course you can! I always  
said Buffy was a show fanfic was meant to be written about!"  
"Gosh, Mr. Whedon, no matter how evil you are, you're STILL  
the BEST!"  
  
Spoilers: Um, in a very vague manner, every single episode  
that's been pivotal to Angel, the spin-off included?  
  
Author's Notes: This is sort of an experiment . . . it's  
written in the second person, a style I've never tried  
before . . . comments about whether I should ever attempt it  
again would be lovely   
  
Dedication: To David Boreanaz for being so damned  
inspirational. Boy breaks my heart every time Angel tears  
up, and makes me giggle like an idiot whenever Angel does  
something silly. That's gotta count for something. (We won't  
mention how yummy I think he is. I really don't see how  
that's at all pertinent.)  
  
Summary: Drunk Angel and his six hour adventure down memory  
lane.  
  
~  
  
It's raining cats and dogs, except you've never liked that  
expression so you refuse to think it. Instead, you compare  
the rain to how it had been that night, the one you still  
remember even though it's been nine years. Nine years since  
you've touched her, if you don't count a sunny day in  
November, and you don't.  
  
You've been drinking a lot tonight, more than you have since  
the first time you were human. As you down another shot of  
tequila, you feel every single one of your two hundred and  
fifty-two years.  
  
When you were young, you used to walk to the cliffs by the  
sea and stare out at Galway Bay. Out on those cliffs, you're  
free. After your sister was born, you'd flee the house, away  
from screaming babies and haggard mothers. Put as much  
distance as possible between you and the father who was  
already starting to look at you with disappointment in his  
eyes, despite the fact that you hadn't even had time to grow  
into a man yet.  
  
After you'd disappointed him for the last time, you go out  
and you make something of your life. Only you've always been  
a spectacular fuckup, and you need a small blonde monster to  
change you into a new man. Except you're not a man, you're a  
monster too now, and you drank up your mother and your  
father and your baby sister who called you an angel. You  
drank up your whole town, the whole coastline, the whole of  
Europe.  
  
With the most beautiful monster on earth by your side, you  
drank and drank until you'd left bloody footprints across  
the entire continent. And then you caught something in  
Romania, like the twelve step program from hell, and you  
admitted you had a problem as their screams echoed through  
your mind like the sound of the glass shattering in your  
palm as you remember the children, especially the children.  
  
So suddenly you have a soul, and you're just supposed to  
stop, stop drinking, stop killing, stop existing the way you  
have for a hundred and forty-some odd years. And your  
beautiful monster sees you for the pathetic shell you've  
become, tells you you're a disappointment to her, throws you  
away just like dear old dad, and you're wandering now, the  
guilt is consuming you, and you want a drink worse than you  
can believe.  
  
Then there were the years when you wondered why you bothered  
to stay alive at all. After being rejected the second time,  
you don't try to find her again, you realize you aren't like  
her, you can never be like her again, your monster, mother  
and lover. You can't kill, because each new death was a new  
face, a change in pitch to the endless screaming in your  
soul. You think of returning to Ireland, but you know that  
you left no one alive in your village, and you couldn't  
stand to see where your sister's grave doesn't lie.  
  
Instead you go to America, someplace you'd never been but  
you always wanted to visit. You spend enough time in the old  
west, down in Mexico, in Hollywood, that you lose the Irish  
accent that sets you apart from the rest of the world. You  
don't want to be set apart, you want to blend in. Even  
though you want nothing as much as you want to drink them  
all up, you like humans, you wish you could be one again,  
but you don't say so, you don't even think it too loud  
because a monster should never dream such dreams.  
  
Time passes again, whisper slow and lightning fast, all at  
the same time. After awhile it gets to be too much. You  
can't even remember what pushed you onto the streets, but  
here you are, New York, the city that never sleeps, and  
you're taking a bite of the big apple, only it tastes more  
like rats, and you're about out of tether. One more night  
out here and you're going to forget to find shelter and  
greet the dawn in the middle of Times Square.  
  
Someone doesn't want you to, though, and they send you a  
bookie disguised as a balancing demon and he tells you  
you've got a chance to make up for it all, to be forgiven  
for drinking them all down, to maybe even gain redemption  
for still craving like you do.  
  
He says he has something to show you, and you go with him,  
partly because you don't care anymore, and partly because  
you so badly want to believe you aren't hopeless. And he  
certainly shows you something worth fighting for. He shows  
you sunshine and your future all wrapped up in a wisp of a  
girl sucking on a lollypop. You have a moment of clarity,  
watching her bounce down the steps of her school.  
  
You fall in love with her hard and fast, but that's not  
really the point, because anyone who looked at her with  
sunlight streaking through her hair would love her. You're  
different because she's not just love to you, she is  
salvation. There are a thousand different faces that you see  
when you look at hers, and you think that maybe, if you can  
help her, if you can save her, you've got a shot at being  
free.  
  
So you tell the bookie you want to help her, and you watch  
her for a good long while. You train and drink again, but  
you don't cause more people to scream. The bookie shows you  
a better way to go about doing things, even though you  
already knew, because you hadn't been chasing rats for a  
century. Just the last year or so when the screams got too  
loud to close your eyes during the day.  
  
When you meet her face to face, and she doesn't like you on  
sight, you feel a surge of things you haven't felt in a long  
while; some of these things you've never felt. And it's  
right, it's perfect to feel everything because you're so in  
love with this tiny girl who's small and blonde, but not a  
monster, and has never reminded you of the one who came  
before her.  
  
It's foolish and irresponsible and you told yourself you  
didn't love her, you only wanted to help her because you'd  
hurt so many in your life, but you don't believe it and  
every time you keep going back to kiss her 'one more time'  
you prove how full of shit you are.  
  
The catch is, she was never supposed to love you back.  
You're a monster. Can't she see? Doesn't she know? The first  
time you kissed her, she screamed, and that's more like it,  
another scream to record with the multitude of them you  
still hear in your dreams. But no, you're telling her you  
love her and she's saying it back and asking you to kiss  
her, but she doesn't just want you to kiss her and you both  
know it.  
  
Her skin is wet, and she's so cold, and all you want to do  
is warm her. All you've ever wanted was to keep her warm, to  
wrap her inside yourself until nothing can harm her. But you  
forget the monster that lives inside your skin, you forget  
it completely, and your lapse is all it takes to bring her  
world crashing down around her and it's still raining cats  
and dogs outside, and you say fuck it, because you can't  
think of a better expression to use.  
  
But you're drifting, just like you always do when you're  
drunk, and you did have a point at the beginning of this.  
  
A side trip to hell, an eternity of torture, and you're  
back, almost good as new. Your guilt isn't diminished in the  
slightest for all your suffering, and you privately believe  
that all your time in hell is solely reserved as penance for  
the wounds you inflicted on your love. There's still that  
pesky hundred and forty-some odd years of drinking to make  
up for, not to mention nearly a century of apathy.  
  
You can't imagine leaving her again though, because how can  
you leave your salvation and still manage to find peace?  
Peace isn't something you're allowed to have, though,  
because peace leads to perfect happiness, and we all know  
what that leads to. But if you can't find peace, that means  
being with you won't bring her any, and if there was one  
thing she needed in her life, it was a little peace.  
  
You want to give her the world, but all that's yours to give  
is a battered heart and a threadbare soul that barely clung  
to your skin. It wasn't nearly enough for her, nowhere near  
what she deserved, so you drive the final nail through your  
coffin and you leave, because it's best for her, and that's  
what you swore to give her, the best, and your absence is  
the purest thing you have left.  
  
Before you leave, you have to drink from her, because she  
can't let you die anymore than you can kill her spirit by  
staying with her. And nothing has ever tasted as good as she  
does, and when you have rational thought again, you know  
drinking her dry will be on constant replay in your most  
erotic musings as well as your darkest nightmares.  
  
Back in Los Angeles now, you try to walk the path set before  
you. The Powers That Be send you family in the form of  
people determined to love and annoy you for the rest of  
eternity. You hate them for it as much as you love them, and  
they keep you alive until you're allowed to live again.  
  
Your love still lives in a small town, keeps it safe from  
the creatures of the night. She has lovers, more than you'd  
like, but to your delight and consternation, they never stay  
for more than a year. You wanted her to marry and have  
children and sunlight and instead she seems determined to  
walk in the night. You even confront her about it once, but  
she shuts you down. Not once does she beg you to come back,  
but you see it in her eyes anyway, and you make a silent vow  
that you will come back to her one day when your life is  
finally yours to give.  
  
That's something you know she never quite understood. Your  
life was never yours, not from the moment you fell to your  
knees and drank deeply from a monster's chest. You couldn't  
give yourself to her until you'd earned the right, and it  
took you so long, years and battles and tears and blood, but  
you did it, you earned it, and now you're human and instead  
of being with her, you're in a bar, broken glass imbedded in  
your palm from where you shattered it with the force of your  
helpless rage and it's really starting to sting because it  
had been half full of tequila at the time.  
  
Your heart had been thumping for all of fifteen minutes when  
you'd realized this was it, finally and at last. You feel  
like you're in the final moments of an epic war drama, and  
you want to shout, "Free at last! Free at last! God  
Almighty, I'm free at last!" but you don't. Instead, you hug  
the guys, kiss Cordelia, and race out to your black  
convertible. You drive balls out to Sunnydale, and it's  
daytime so you leave the top up because you find that you  
love the feel of sunlight on your face. You stop long enough  
to buy sunglasses, and the girl at the stand doesn't  
understand why you can't stop laughing as you put them on.  
  
When you finally get to Sunnydale, you're more nervous than  
you've ever been in your life, and you don't want to be  
nervous, all you want is to see her, and hold her, and let  
her press her ear to your chest so she can hear your  
heartbeat, too. You want to make a perfect day, just like  
the one that came before, only this time, you'll die before  
you take it back.  
  
The living heart you can't quite get used to shatters into a  
million pieces when you see what was once your salvation  
walking down the streets of Sunnydale at sunset. Her fingers  
are twined with those of a man you don't recognize, and her  
upturned face is smiling at him, because Buffy doesn't just  
smile with her mouth, she does it with her eyes and her  
cheeks and the little crinkles around her eyes.  
  
Her little crinkles are grinning radiantly at this man, and  
you wonder how you could have been so selfish, so utterly  
stupid as to think that she wouldn't be with someone. Anyone  
who looked at her loved her, and you think for a moment how  
nice it would be to run across the street and rip the man  
who was kissing her strawberry lips into a thousand, bloody  
pieces. You want to drink him down, but then you remember  
that you don't drink anymore, and you decide it's time you  
start again.  
  
Which his how you ended up here at Willy's, staring at your  
bloody hand, marveling at the fact that you feel nothing but  
nauseated looking at the sticky red liquid.  
  
Pain is more effective than black coffee, and already you  
feel clearer. Luckily, though, you're not sober enough to  
know better, and here you are back at Revello Drive, staring  
up at the house you'd once made nightly sweeps by, just to  
make sure she was safe.  
  
For a moment, you consider climbing up to her bedroom  
window, but you decide against it. If you fell, you'd  
probably break your neck, and she wasn't going to be happy  
to see you healthy and whole -- if you got yourself killed,  
she'd probably yell.  
  
So instead you ring the doorbell, and you feel ridiculous  
ringing the doorbell to this house. Had you ever done so  
before? You can't recall, and you think that you really had  
had an odd relationship with your soulmate. Odd in a  
wonderful way, and you're starting to remember why you got  
drunk in the first place now, and you think that maybe you  
should just run away before she catches you out here. You  
don't think you'll be able to survive it if HE comes to the  
door, or worse, if THEY come to the door together.  
  
But your reflexes are sluggish, and by the time your legs  
process your brain's screams to turn around, the door has  
opened and she's looking at you in that way she always has  
that makes you feel gutted and happy at the same time.  
  
The really strange thing is, she looks like she's been  
crying, and you want to take her in your arms, but your  
hand's still bleeding, and she catches sight of it at the  
same time you remember it, and she gasps. Then her hand is  
on your wrist and she's pulling you inside and your fuzzy  
mind notes that pale pink terrycloth is a very good look for  
her.  
  
It takes you a minute, but you realize you've been staring  
at her cleavage visible where her robe gapes slightly. If  
she notices you looking, she doesn't comment, because she's  
somehow managed to bring you up to her room, and she's very  
carefully picking the glass out of your hand with a pair of  
tweezers.  
  
Her room is bright, and you squint at it, then use it to  
your advantage as you go back to staring down her robe.  
Soon, though, her words begin penetrating the drunken fog  
you find yourself in, and damn, she's pissed at you. So  
pissed she gets a little rough with the tweezers, but when  
you hiss, she apologizes and is gentle again.  
  
Why is she so mad at you? You must have asked out loud,  
because she huffs and starts reeling off a list of your  
sins. You're drunk, you got drunk instead of telling her  
that you're human, you assume too much about her, or too  
little about yourself, or something like that, you're not  
really sure, because she's crying again and the alcohol  
she's swiping your hand with stings like hell and you're  
starting to get a headache.  
  
You take the bottle of rubbing alcohol from her hands and  
toss it aside as she starts to tell you about Cordelia  
calling. You are unsurprised by this development, but you  
still don't understand why she's crying until she explains  
that the man she was with was just another man, not the one  
she loves, and didn't you want her anymore?  
  
Well, damn, of course you want her, you've never wanted  
anything else, and your good-as-new hand is pulling her head  
towards you as your press your lips over her eyelids, and  
her cheeks, and her gradually reappearing crinkles.  
  
She's smiling at you now, with her whole face at that, and  
suddenly you aren't straining to see down her robe because  
your hands somehow undo the tie and she shrugs it off  
without being prompted. Your hands are full of her warm skin  
and she's a fast study, your love, because you quickly  
discover you're as naked as she is.  
  
Her bed is soft, but not as soft as her flesh, and you're  
not drunk at all now, you're seven years in the past only  
this time you're the one who's shaking like a leaf from the  
cold and from her, and she's warming you with her skin,  
lying back and pulling you on top of her, inside of her so  
you can keep each other warm and safe the way you'd wanted  
to from that very first moment.  
  
It's slow and sweet, and you're bumping your nose with hers,  
sliding your tongue inside the endlessly lush warmth of her  
mouth, and her lips really do taste like ripe, plump  
strawberries. You feel like you haven't kissed her in  
centuries, and you haven't, because the only time you'd ever  
kissed her as a man was on a day that never really happened.  
  
Fingers are stroking up and down your back and you're taking  
mouthfuls of her flesh as she whispers into your ear. She  
tells you that you're loved, and wanted, and that if you  
ever try to leave her again, she'll hunt you to the ends of  
the earth. You think that nothing has ever made you happier  
than hearing that, and you tell her so as you go back for  
another taste of the scar tissue on the side of her neck.  
  
At that she's arching into you, pulling you closer and  
deeper and harder and oh, yes, right there, just like that,  
it's been so long, too long, and you feel like you might die  
right there in her arms, and you're okay with that, you  
really are, because you've been alive for over six hours  
now, you've felt the sun on your face and made love to your  
other half, and life really doesn't have much more than that  
to offer you.  
  
Then again, you'd kind of like to do it all over again for  
the next fifty or sixty years, and you must have said that  
out loud, too, because she's laughing, giggling really as  
she comes apart in your arms, and you're so damned happy  
that you're laughing with her, your bodies vibrating in  
perfect harmony with one another.  
  
And then you're there, you're flying and falling and  
screaming and bursting. You're suddenly all those words they  
use to try and fail to describe how goddamned =good= it  
really feels. Except those words couldn't possibly contain  
in them the depth of emotion you feel in your heart to be  
buried in and surrounded by the girl who'd made your  
pathetic existence a life you could take pride in.  
  
While you're panting in her ear, you think you might like to  
sleep, and she obviously endorses this idea a hundred  
percent because she's already snoring. You're still inside  
her and on top of her, and you briefly contemplate moving,  
but ultimately decide against it. There's nowhere else in  
the world you'd rather be, so you press your cheek to her  
breast and fall asleep listening to her heartbeat.  
  
When you wake up you're in the same position, except her  
fingers are stroking through your hair and you haven't felt  
this free since the last time you stood out on that cliff in  
Galway Bay, and you think that you'd like to take her there  
someday. But not today, because it was still raining cats  
and dogs, and you think someone really ought to think up a  
better expression than that, but you can't be bothered to  
try because your mouth =is= an inch away from her nipple and  
you've got two hundred and fifty-two years of living without  
her to make up for.  
  
~  
  
END 


End file.
